


Green and Gold

by owlboxes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: All Well 2020, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Carnivale was great and nothing hurts, Crossdressing, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Let James wear ALL the dresses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23802925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlboxes/pseuds/owlboxes
Summary: James admits that the centurion armor was not his first costume choice. Francis wants to see the outfit that never was.Canon-divergent, maybe carnivale doesn't end in a huge fiery deathtrap?
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64
Collections: All Well: The Terror April 2020 Fest





	Green and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble written for All Well 2020. I'm new to the fandom but couldn't resist jumping right in. You can find me under the same username on tumblr; feel free to come say hi and gush about Fitzier with me?

“I almost wore a dress, if you’d believe it.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and James can feel the heat warming his cheeks far more than the concoction sloshing in his mug ever will. It’s done a good job of loosening his lips, however, and he curses himself for taking a second when the first round should have sufficed. It’s just that seeing Francis up and moving about again has put him in good spirits. Having him here and in good health again, among the men in their colorful costumes, singing heartily along to some nonsense that Irving is leading them through...it’s a taste of hope that they’ve all lacked for far too long.

From beside him, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Francis arch a brow, hears a warm chuckle that sends a shiver down his spine. “Is that so?”

James nods, mutely, lifts his mug to guzzle down another gulp or two to steel himself for a conversation he’s brought on of his own accord. While true that some of the men dug into that ridiculous chest of costumes and re-purposed gowns for their own outfits, he’d caught himself second-guessing his initial choice, and deciding instead to go with something fitting for a commander. The armor is safer than velvet or taffeta, and less telling. Or, would be less telling, if he could stop himself from blurting confessions over the rim of his mug.

Francis hums. It’s a low sound, and yet even over the din of the men’s raucous laughter, James can hear it. There’s a lull in which he worries he’s said too much, that the insinuations might be too distasteful even for a man whose bed he’s warmed on a regular basis over the long and unforgiving winter. He’s about to open his mouth and make a joke of it, about how silly he would have looked all done up in silk and lace, when Francis speaks again and suddenly his heart is racing, and it isn’t from embarrassment anymore.

“You should have. You’d’ve looked good.” 

It’s probably a good thing he’d already swallowed his mouthful because if the flush of his cheeks feels unbecoming, choking on his drink would have been ten times worse. Francis leans in closer - he _knows_ what he’s doing - and murmurs, “Don’t suppose you still have that dress lying around somewhere?”

It’s a tricky matter, sneaking out from the carnivale without being noticed. Across the ice, the men’s voices carry, laughter and singing filling the frigid air; at least they’ll have had a good night, even with the morning’s preparations looming over them. It’s a stark reminder of what tonight is meant for, and it lessens the guilt of leaving them to their own devices for a while. 

A quick wave to the men on watch along Erebus’ deck is enough. They’ll assume, without being told, that the captains retreating to the quiet of James’ quarters is for the sake of something important - discussion of strategies, perhaps, or another equally pressing matter. Certainly not anything to do with curiosities about the dress still tucked away with the rest of James’ clothing. Still, there’s a feeling akin to shame gnawing away at the back of his mind and were it not for Francis’ enthusiasm regarding the situation, it would be easy to give in to that discomfort entirely. 

As it is, he pulls the dress out from between dark, heavy wool garments with slightly trembling hands, revealing a secret he’d intended to keep to himself. It isn’t anything to fawn over, simplistic in its gold and green velvet, the trim on it bordering on gaudy, evidently a costume piece and not fit to be worn to any of the many galas and dinners he’s attended in the past. The velvet is soft between his fingers though, and he holds it for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder at Francis, finding only curiosity where he’d feared there might be disdain. 

“I need a moment to change,” he says, the words thick on his tongue, and he’s given that time alone, to shrug out of armor and cape and replace them instead with something decidedly more delicate. He’s worn it once before, looked at his reflection for too long, deconstructing everything he likes and doesn’t like about the way that it fits. His shoulders are too broad for it, his chest too flat. It stretches there, but not in the same pleasant way that it would suit a woman’s curvature; instead, he finds it taut, the sleeves pulled tight around biceps too defined in musculature and he’s thankful all at once that the velvet has more give than the heavier, starched fabrics of his uniforms. The length of it leaves his legs bared from just below the knee, and he frets, briefly, about whether or not to go barefoot, and settles, finally, on leaving his socks on, if only to ward off the chill of the floors. 

The dress pulls in at the waist, and his hands linger there as he looks over his reflection again. That, at the very least, he thinks, is something that he can appreciate. He’s slim around the middle, always has been, and the cut of the dress accentuates that in a pleasant way. The color is flattering too, for being nothing particularly vivid or spectacular, and when he turns just right, the skirt flares and twirls in a way that he shouldn’t find quite so appealing. Even so, it takes a long minute for him to work up the courage to step out so that Francis can see him, and when he does, he keeps his head down, almost afraid to see the other man’s reaction. It feels terribly vulnerable, to share this part of himself, and his face is burning as he stands there, hands at his sides, and waits for laughter that he’s certain is coming.

Instead, Francis whistles, low and appreciative, and the floorboards creak as the distance between them is closed in a few slow steps. Strong hands find the curve of his hips and his breath leaves him in one swift exhale, heart hammering in his ears so loudly that he almost misses it when Francis calls him _lovely_ in a breathless whisper.

“Do you really think so?” he finds himself asking, disbelief winning out over vanity in a rare moment of openness, and the answering chuckle is all that he needs to know. 

“I do. Though you’ll have to forgive me.” 

“For what?”

The lecherous grin spreading across Francis’ face is altogether too becoming in the low light of the cabin. One hand slides down along the curve of James’ hip to tug at the skirt. “For wanting to get you out of this pretty thing so soon after you’ve put it on for me.” 

“I’m sure I can manage to forgive you that much,” James finds himself grinning, doubts assuaged as he pulls back to lead the way to his bunk. Carnivale can wait.

“After all, it would be a shame to ruin such a lovely gown.” 


End file.
